


Dissimulate.

by fearless_seas



Series: Thirteen Years. [6]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Apologies, Emotional Hurt, Falling In Love, Fights, Injury, Insomnia, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones, Pining, Smoking, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-14 07:59:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16036286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearless_seas/pseuds/fearless_seas
Summary: (v) to conceal or disguise one's thoughts, feelings, or character.





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> This one is a few weeks late! I have been moving to a new continent, haha. Not as though anyone cares but yeah! So, here ya'll go

**\----- 1987 -----**

**April 10th**

 

          “This is pathetic,” Nelson ran his fingers in a circular motion over his eyelids. “We already went over this in ‘82, in South Africa.”

          Alain hummed in reply, “I remember, I remember.”

          But Nelson couldn’t stop himself from musing over the subject. He flipped the book he was reading over onto the arm of the chair. “A fee is a fee,” he started.

          “A license is a license,” Alain sighed, rubbing his forehead, “We’ve gone over this a million times, do you  honestly  want to start it up again ?”

          Nelson shrugged, a smile flirting with his lips, “ Maybe .”  Alain believed they had dropped the subject and  were resigned to paying the fee but he begun bagering once again . “God you were such a little whore in South Africa,” he chuckled, licking his lips.

          “Can we not talk about this?”

          “Really?”, Nelson trailed a digit over the spine of the novel before picking it back up. “Sitting there on the bathroom sink moaning like a slut...”

          “If you shut up for the next hour, I might let you do it again.”

          Nelson smirked but closed his mouth.

 

_________________________

**May 1st**

 

          Alain’s heart is in his throat. His eyes blurry, and he attempts to focus on the tremor in his hands to steady his attention. With a dry mouth he sits in an uncomfortable hospital chair with his legs sprawled out in front of him. It’s the late evening, the scent of rubbing alcohol and paper sheets is making him nauseous.  A distant sensation of pain settles in his core, branching off throughout his stomach and towards his lungs . He shuts his eyes for a moment, shifting a hand over his visage once again and inhaling  deeply .

_His attention falls to the Williams garage as he peels off his overalls and shakes out his flattened hair from beneath his helmet. There is a swell of energy around him and Murray’s voice plays out on the transmission as he views the empty lot where only one car sits._

_“Nelson Piquet, nasty crash at Tamburello.”_

_He freezes. A file of people line the wall overlooking the turn as though it were some type of spectacle. He stands watching that unfilled spot in the garage suddenly growing colder and colder. _

          After an hour of waiting he is  eventually led into Nelson’s temporary hospital room. When he steps in, the air is overcast and empty as night sky without anything but the blackness. There is a single light on in the corner of the room. Nelson is sat on a bed with blue sheets, dressed in a hospital gown. His eyes peering out of the window on his left. At first, he doesn't even notice Alain enter the room and continues to gawk past the glass at the nothingness. Alain places his hands behind his back and cleared his throat to announce his presence. The sound causes Nelson to  slowly move his head towards him, blinking and scanning him up and down.

          “Alain,” he croaks, trying to sit up a little higher before flinching, slipping back down. He seems  oddly surprised at his company and eyes him  cautiously . The first thing Alain notices after he sets his coat down on the back of a chair is how tired Nelson looks.  There is an uninspired bulb flickering, hovering  dimly across his features as well as a tenderness in how he removes a hand from beneath his jaw and sets it beside him on the bed .

          “You do not have to move,” he assures, crossing his arms over the back of the chair while studying him.  Nelson tightens his jaw and his gaze tumbles to his hands where it resides fiddling with the blanket fibers . It is silent for a minute and each are  perhaps unsure of what to say.

          “What a crash,” Nelson admits with a laugh that dies in his throat starved and choked of any meaning. Alain trails up his figure.  Up his bare legs to his waist to the pale wash of veins crossing beneath the flesh of his wrist; up over his chest, neck, along his ear, hair and then to his eyes .

          “What did the doctors say?”, Alain interrogates knowing he would never tell him. He rests his chin on his arms.

          Nelson waves him off, “I don’t want to talk about that.” He sounds exhausted. A lack of hope or happiness  maybe .

          “Nelson,” Alain leans himself closer, “Are you alright?”

_           Nelson, unconscious,  is wheeled on a stretcher into an ambulance.  Later Alain walks by the scene, the debree and scattered bits of fiberglass raining over the grass . The paint  is chipped in a large area out of the concrete wall. The vehicle pulls away and it is the first time worry settles in the pit of his stomach.  The car is  absolutely destroyed, a crumpled piece of metal broken and shattered like a child’s toy on the asphalt . _

          It takes him an occasion to conjure up an answer. He muses over it, plays the phrase in his head and dancing his eyes about the little room. In this reticence, they both discover their answer. “Yeah,” he admits softly, almost lifelessly, “I am alright.” Halted, scared, trembling and unsure of itself. He briefly squints his eyes, a small gasp of pain as he moans and reaches to grip at his ankle. “Fuck, that hurts,” he tosses his head back and his hair cascades over the pillow. He shuts his eyes and his breath comes in tight puffs over quivering lips.

          “You are not lying, right?” But he already knows that he is.

          Again, a recess, a hint of quietude fills the air and it tastes bitter to the both of them. Nelson picks with the sleeve of his hospital gown. “What would I have to lie about?”, a forced and distracted grin rips at the corner of his lips. “Did you just come here to ask questions and make yourself feel better?”, he inquires deadpanned.

          Alain is taking back a little and his head cocks, “What are you talking about?"

          Nelson shrugs, “This entire time I've been trying to find a reason why you would visit me.”

          This hurts him a little. “Christ, Nelson,” Alain shakes his head, “You  really have a pessimistic view of the world, you realize that?” Nelson presses his fingers into his temples to relieve some type of distant pain.

          “With good reason.” An uncomfortable air is thrown upon both their shoulders.

          Alain gathers himself out of his seat, “I should go.” He stands up and slips his coat back over his shoulders. But Nelson doesn't protest, so he turns away as their gaze falls to the tiled floored.

          “Wait, Alain--” Nelson reaches out sharply and latches his arm, tugs him back. Eyes lock and their mouth is hanging open but the words just won’t come out. He rips his hand away ultimately after realizing that he was still holding onto him. Alain doesn't leave, he waits, following the surge of silent agony that creeps over the depths in his eyes. “Goodnight,” is all he says with a sigh as if that is closest thing to what he really desired to say.

 _Alain spends four hours pacing his hotel room around the boundaries of his bed deciding whether or not he should go and visit the hospital. He picks up his car keys into his hand and then shakes his head and drops them back on the table. He does this again and again every time that he passes them. Even when he sitting behind the wheel and his right hand rests on the gearshift does he realize he is actually going to do this. Then he wonders if Nelson actually wants to see him. A smaller voice wonders if he himself wants to see Nelson. He knows when he parks his car he won’t be able to sleep that night if he doesn’t know if they are okay_.

          “Goodnight, Nelson.” Alain puts his hand on the handle of the door. He turns his gaze around and Nelson is still following him and his every move as he leaves the room. It is sudden, he shoots his head to the side and back out of the window at the night sky. The door closes behind him and Alain swears their thoughts are still on him even as he is not there.

 

_________________________

**May 2nd**

 

          Sid doesn’t allow him to race that weekend. Nelson pounds into the McLaren garage that day kicking over a bucket as he approaches Alain.

          “Did you fucking tell Sid something?”, he seethes and Alain takes a step backwards as they hover in front of his face.

          “About what?”, he questions.

          “Don’t play stupid,” Nelson throws his hands up above his head, “About my condition, did you exaggerate it?”

          Alain exhales and settles on the workbench behind him, crossing his arms over his chest. “I haven’t even spoken to Sid, what happened?”  Nelson’s shoulders decline and he clenches his fists, blinking as though he  was caught in the middle of something he wasn’t supposed to be . “Calm down,” Alain reaches forward and places a hand on both of his shoulders. He clasps the beds of his fingers into the tight, muscled skin of his shoulders. “What happened?”, he repeats.

          “It’s  just a stupid ankle injury,” Nelson mutters, stepping out of his grasp. On his way out, he hits his fist on the wall. Alain doesn’t follow him, and he thinks, in the end,  maybe he should’ve.

 

_________________________

**May 17th**

 

          The change begins when Nelson throws his book across the room with a loud, frustrated growl. Startled, Alain shoots upright as it crashes to the floor across the motorhome.

          “What the hell are you doing?”, Alain crawls over to him with a squeak, coming around to the front of their seat.

          “Stupid book,” he mutters, frowning and crossing his arms, “All of the stupid words are blurry."

          “It’s your eyes, not the book.”  Alain heads across the room to pick it up, smoothing out the creased edges and setting it next to the sink all  neatly folded . Nelson shoots his attention away. Alain resigns himself to studying his flickering eyelids from across the room. He starts to insist Alain drive the car every time they are together.

          “Why do you always make me drive?”

          “Because,” Nelson tosses a few ideas around in his head, the mental gears cranking together visibly, “Just because.”

          Alain knew better than to ask, but he did anyways. “You are having a lot of issues, since…”, he pauses, “Do you need help, a doctor maybe?”

          “Shut up and drive,” Nelson snaps, shooting his gaze out of his own window. The rest of the car ride is spent in unresolved quietude.

 

_________________________

**June 21st**

 

          Nelson sprays champagne on him on the podium after the race.  He slaps his back as they exit before his smile falls, disappears like a thin memory lost to time (and difficult to dig up) .  He doesn’t visit him after the race either, nor does he answer the knocks on his hotel room when Alain is standing outside of the door . His knuckles rap up against the wood and he can hear them shuffling about without moving. It is an indescribable feeling,  suddenly finding yourself alone. It makes him want to sit outside of the door, wondering if they are alright.  Surely enough, after time comes, he treads away and leaves him behind.

 

_________________________

**July 5th**

 

          Nelson seems distracted that night. Alain finds this because he  barely touches him, even during sex. His hands are not locked on his hips nor do his lips play with sentences or the column of his throat. Their eyes keep lingering, out and away over towards the curtains. It begins to annoy Alain so much that at one point he slaps a hand onto their chest and digs his heels into the mattress.

          “Nelson!”, he hisses, digging his nails into the flesh a little bit.

          Nelson immediately shoots his head back and blinks confused. “Ouch,” he cries, grimacing and rubbing at the reddened flesh. “What the fuck was that for?”, he moans.

          Alain crawls off of him, panting and attempting to gather his breath. He kneels naked on the mattress, “You are not putting any work in, it is all me.” Nelson shrugs and, sure enough, his eyes are lingering back towards the other side of the room as if there was a thing there to be looking at in the first place. He sighs and reaches to wrap the end of the sheets around his waist, “Do you want to stop?”

          Nelson deadpans, hesitates but pretends not to muse over this. “Get back on my cock,” he motions and Alain raises a brow. “Not everything is as difficult as you make it,” he frowns and sits up a little, “You are just laying there, if _you_ want to stop I will finish this off myself.” He trails a hand over his abdomen as if teasing him. Eventually Alain gets back on top of him. Nelson’s pupils seem tiny, muted and the edges of his eyes crinkle with every tight breath.

          “What is wrong with you?”, Alain huffs, leaning into him and arching his neck.

          “Only a headache,” he rubs a hand over his temple.  Alains rolls over onto his side of the bed, ghosting his fingertips over the nightstand and waiting for him to dress and leave . Only he doesn't, Nelson only quiets and slow himself.

          “Are you going to stay?”, he inquires  reticently , turning back around. Nelson’s eyes are already closed as a man who hasn’t seen sleep in weeks--been drained of everything he had within him. Alain didn’t push it any farther and pushes his own face into the pillow for rest.

 

_________________________

**July 6th**

 

          Alain awakes in the middle of the night shivering in his bones. Vision creaking open to the darkness about his room. He  is naked and a grimace meets his expression. He scrunches up his legs before tugging the blanket over himself. The chill leaps over the pitter of his shoulder blades and he his teeth begin to rattle together. Groggy, he flattens onto his back to slap Nelson awake and demand that he close the window they’d left open. But his hand only grabs onto an empty pocket of air, a crinkled bunch of sheets left behind in the nuit. He sits up with a question on his lips, peering about the desolate room.  The balcony door is wide open and ghost-white drapes billow out into the space from the senseless summer wind .  Swinging his feet over the bed, he guides himself towards the open door, pulling up a pair of shorts over his bony waist  loosely as he stumbles to his feet . His hand lands on the frame, poking his head around the corner.

          Nelson is sitting there alone in one of the deck chairs that panes out over the edge towards the vast city.  He has a hand under his jaw and his attention facing out towards the sky light with a fascinating quality of a silent movie .  The city sprawls itself over the landscape, dots of energy ignite the heavens into tiny flames . Navy blue, with little swirls of white and gold mixed in like a child’s canvass. The wind ruffles Nelson’s hair over the back of his neck, blows sweet air at his bare chest. Alain trembles, stealing the empty seat across from him without a word. It is only then that Nelson glances at him, giving him a little slice of scrutiny from the side of his vision. Then his focus points back towards the street and at the little cars blinking up and down the road.

          “It all seems unimportant,” Nelson hums softly, “From up here.” Alain positions his gaze out at the mounting buildings across the layout of horizon. “Each little person down there has a story I will never know. The world is _insignificant_ ,” the last word sounds foreign as if he’d recently read it and found he quite liked the sound of it.

          “What are you trying to say?”, Alain runs a hand over his jaw, glimpsing across to him.

          “That maybe nothing matters,” he taps his fingers over the ledge. “That all… _this_ ,” he gestures wildly above his head, “Does not matter in the end. It makes me wonder why we are afraid of anything at all, if this is all we have, why don't we take chances more often?”

          Alain swallows, “Do things we always wanted to do.”

          Nelson’s head folds towards him and his eyes  are shadowed  little orbs, wide and full underneath the of black. “Say things we should already be saying,” he simpers lower. Alain meets his eyes a moment longer. Nelson,  however ,  rapidly  shifts his focus in another direction. “I am not being stupid,” he notes.

          “I never said you were,” Alain chews on his inner lip.

          “I am only thinking about things.”

          “About what else?”, Alain indulges, leaning over the glass tabletop.

          Nelson locks eyes. A light chuckle escapes him and he shakes his head, “Be careful, my thoughts are dangerous and they might kill you.” Alain dramatically rolls his eyes. “Is there anything you want to say, Alain?”, Nelson inquires cautiously, “To me.”

          The thought amuses him, “I wish you would tell the truth more.”

          “Remember: no emotional bullshit.”

          Alain wrings his hands, “Yes, but not all emotions are bullshit. You have to let yourself feel something sometimes, you understand?”

          Nelson shrugs weakly, “I was always taught emotions make a man weak. I was hit when I cried until I made sure that did not happen anymore.” He shakes his head, “That is how this goes.”

          The atmosphere submits itself. “Not  all of the time.”  Nelson eyes him then, observes the gaze crawling over his face as though attempting to memorize every crease on his face . Following a dash of stillness Alain asks with a yawn, “Why are you out here anyways? It is too early to be philosophical about life.”

          “I can’t sleep,” he admits, “I haven’t been able to sleep  properly since the stupid accident.” But Alain knows better than to hope that he try to get help  eventually . He consigns himself to staring out at the tiny bulbs of light as the sunset arrives to dress them both up in gold.

 

_________________________

**July 12th**

 

          Nelson catches him at the end of the race, pushes him up against the wall and roughly shoves a hand between in legs. Alain’s eyes widen as his back meets the concrete fixture. It throws him off so he tugs his mouth away from Nelson's and his lips continue to pattern the lining of his neck. A hand closes onto one side of his waist.

          “Can’t you wait?”, Alain mutters and pushes on their chest  playfully . Nelson stumbles back, pausing before wiping a hand over his mouth and dusting off his hands.

          “Not  really ,” he smirks with a corner of his mouth. His eyes have a sudden sad and desperate quality to them. Alain pities him, reaching forward and curling a digit over the collar of his shirt to lead him along. The door of the motorhome shuts behind them  frantically . He is already spun around and pinned against the edge of a makeshift mattress. Nelson’s sharp fingers rip at the hem of his shirt, throwing it over his head enough to ruffle his hair up.

          “Woah,” Alain chuckles, “Slow down.”

          It’s for not for his sake own because Nelson doesn’t appear to be paying attention. It feels desperate, his hands on his body as his jeans are pulled past his ankles as if he is about to lose something. Nelson doesn’t reply, he crawls himself onto the mattress and arches his back over the wall.

          After a moment of standing there watching him  curiously , Nelson frowns. “Get over here,” he motions and Alain  reluctantly does so. Nelson grabs his shoulders, sliding him over the blanket towards himself. He presses his hand onto the sides of his face almost  intimately . His fingertips travel under their jaw, his thumbs digging into the arch of his cheekbones. He licks his tongue over his lips, rubbing his pads over the skin there, cradling it in his hands. The intimacy of it makes Alain swallow and scope his eyes downwards. He places his hands on the lining of their shorts and undos the zipper. He slows the speed, implementing his lips on their throat as he reaches to dip underneath the hem of his boxers.  He hears Nelson whimper at the touch, his collar shuddering as he sucks his way across his collarbone and towards their ear . Nelson’s mouth moves as if trying to tell him something, moves and then closes once again. Alain continues what he was doing, stroking him and mouthing along their skin. They are close, he senses it because they tighten up, clench their jaw.

          It is sudden and takes him off guard.

          “Stop,” Alain is so distracted that he doesn’t hear it the first time. “Stop." Alain hums without notice, shifting his position to push their legs farther apart. “Please, Alain, stop,” and  maybe he chose not to hear. “ Stop! ”, there is a violent shove to his chest and he stumbles backwards. Nelson’s eyes are patent his chest is rising and falling at a rate. Alain sits up  quickly and freezes, he expects to  be yelled at, for him to scream at him to leave. Instead, it is only silence except for their labored breaths and in the end that felt worse. It takes a second until Nelson stammers a hand over his face and leaps up to snatch his shirt up. He rips it back over his head.

          “Nelson, what’s wrong?”, Alain asks, coming closer but not too near enough to touch him. He doesn't answer and proceeds to scanning about  frantically for his shorts. “Nelson, please, talk to me,” he reaches forward and attempts to put a hand on their shoulder.

          It is quickly bucked off. “Stop, Alain,” he assures, moving his leg up to slide into into his pants. Alain notices then when his eyes fall that their are trembling so much so that they cannot do up their fly. “Fucking, come on,” he cries, letting out a strangled sob of frustration.

          “Here,” Alain slips himself closer, “Let me help.” He reaches to do this.

          Immediately, Nelson slaps his hand away. “Don’t touch me," he snaps his head in his direction. His eyes are scarlet about the edges, crinkled as if he was holding back tears.

          Again, he complies. “If I did something, please, tell me,” and Alain  gently places a hand back on his upper arm. This time, they pause and filter towards the wall. Breathing slows, allowing for him to trail circles into the bed of his wrist above his veins.

          Nelson swallows, “I don’t need your help,” he remarks quietly. He doesn’t mean it in the slightest. “It’s not you,” he admits with a hitch in his voice, finding the stability to stand up and put his button back into place.

          Alain remains seated. “Then what is it?”

          Nelson ignores him, blinking and putting his hat back on over his curls. “I have to leave,” he murmurs as he rushes by, knocking the pictures above the sink  accidentally as he does so.

          “Nelson--”

          The door shuts with a bang and Alain doesn’t move follow him. 


	2. Chapter II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This part was long, decided to split it up. Enjoy!

**_________________________**

**July 13th**

 

          “Are we going to talk about this?”

           _“About what?_ ”, Nelson replies nonchalantly from the other end of the phone.

          “You know... about what happened and you...,” Alain twirls the telephone wire up firmly around his finger.

          _"Yes?_ "

          "You freaked out after trying to sleep with me."

          _“Nope.”_

          Alain sighs audibly, “You know you can talk to me? Trusting someone isn’t as bad as you think.”

          _“Hm,”_ Nelson muses in a tone bridging on mocking, _“Yes it is.”_

          “Why?”

          A pregnant pause.  “ _People fall out over stupid, petty things. Then you regret ever saying anything at all. It is less painful if you didn’t trust to begin with._ ”

          “Or you bottle up your feelings and end up exploding because you are too full. You have to let some of that out.”

          Nelson snorts, _“What am I to you, Alain? A science experiment?”_

          Alain doesn’t even know himself.

 

**_________________________**

**July 22nd**

 

          Ron taps Alain's knee with the cap of his pen and it makes him flinch. “Are you even paying attention?”, he inquires  stubbornly . Alain tugs his head away from the plane window towards him.

          “Yes,” he replies, sitting higher, “Where were we?” A sudden bout of turbulence causes him to grip at cusp of the arm rest and inhale sharply.

          Ron doesn’t seem to notice his irritation, he licks the pad of his thumb and turns over a few pages in his pamphlet of paper. “I am in a dilemma,” he announces, and flips back to the page he was previously on.

          Alain swallows, “And that is…?”

          “A problem,” Ron clarifies, blinking towards him. He shakes his head, “When you are stuck between decisions. That is what it means.”

          Alain nods, “Alright then, continue. What are you in... dilemma over?” He contemplates folding his head back towards the window and staring out at the splatter of gray clouds.

          “You recall Stefan is leaving the team at the end of the year, correct?”

          “Sure,” he remembers something vague about it but he’s been too busy to pay attention to these things (least of all: _remember them_ ). Ron trusts him, he knows that and the best he can do is pretend to be alert and attentive. “I think I do.”

          Ron gives him a disconcerting glance. “Right…”, he trails off, “It’s difficult for me, deciding between two great drivers.”

          “Nelson Piquet is one of them, yeah?”, he wouldn’t mind this next year. Maybe he could even grow to adore the idea if not for Nelson's temperament of late. “Who is the other?”, he asks absentmindedly to carry the conversation.

          “Ayrton Senna.”

          The words settle like moths in the air. Alain stiffens and lifts his chin off of his hand. “Senna?”, he repeats.

          “Yes.”

          “That’s the other driver you are negotiating with?”

          Ron hits his shoulder with the back of his hand, “Are you deaf? Yes, it is Ayrton Senna.”

          The thought echoes itself over the coves of his brain. He can imagine him in red overalls, can even picture seeing him more often. “Who will you choose?”, Alain questions. He knows it is absurd to get wrapped up in stupid fantasies so he folds his gaze out the window. He pictures them sitting in the seat across from him, dark eyes scoping up and down at the sky.

          “I don’t know. Would you choose a man with two world titles or a better, upcoming driver with none?”

          “It all depends,” Alain traces his fingers over the seat handle, “Risk it in the man due for retirement or someone with many more years under their belt .” (He likes that saying:  under their belt .) “How much longer do you want your team to last, Ron?”, he plays, tugs the little invisible strings.  Ron studies him, recognizes him, nods  silently and then scribbles a few, long notes onto a pad of paper in his lap, growing more frustrated every time the vibrations of turbulence causes his pen skid off the lines . Alain kicks out his legs, rests his head and falls asleep with a grin on his face.

 

**_________________________**

**August 7th**

 

          Ron announces it at the press conference with Alain on his right. He cringes from the bright lightsof a photographer’s camera and ducks his eyes down.

          “I’d like to  formally announce the driver line up for McLaren in 1988 will include Alain Prost…”, Alain nodded his head and scooted out his chair, “And, Ayrton Senna ."

          As planned of course, Alain stands up, steps behind his chair and places his hand out towards the man in front of him. Ayrton doesn't hesitate, he reaches forward and shakes his hand. The skin  is calloused but soft,  delicately carved like smooth clay. Ayrton  slowly meets his eyes, the firm line of his mouth making him inhale. Two bottomless depths. The matches in his fingertips seem to burn his gasoline skin away. The pepper of freckles dot over his nose as if each one had been  delicately placed with a paintbrush. Something crawled up from his stomach to his throat and pointed a cold finger towards the man in front of him.

_There you are._

_I’ve been looking for you._

 

**___________________________**

**September 20th**

 

          “You shouldn’t do that,” Alain gestures at the cigarette Nelson has wedged between two extended fingers .

Just to spite him, Nelson settled it to his lips once again and drew in a long, extended breath. He allowed the smoke to drip out around him into the sunset glowing up the banister of the lobby. “I have not had one of these in years, do not play virtuous with me,” he rolls his eyes. An exhale leaves him as he obliges with a curse and stubs out the cigarette in an ashtray on the bar.

          Alain crossed his arms, shifting his back to the impending horizon, “I am far more virtuous than you.”

          “Lies,” Nelson hissed and one could smell the lingering smoke on his clothing. “With the amount of times you are on your knees in front of my cock? You and I are going to hell.”

          This idea lingers with him after it  is said . He blossoms his wrist over a pattern of pink sunshine splattered and mingling with his skin tone. “Doesn’t that scare you?”, he questions.

          “What?”, Nelson swipes a bit of stray ash off the table and it tosses out into the wind. “Of hell?”, he shakes his head, “No, not really.”

          “Why not?”

          Nelson takes a moment to ponder it over then shrugs, “Hell is a little different for me than other people.”

          Somehow Alain understands what he means but he is too frightened to understand that he did. “You enjoy what you get from me,” he chuckles.

          The sun drifts onto Nelson’s features, lines ever tiny in the edge of life. He has a finished nature, like a man who stopped caring long ago (or perhaps cares just too much). A sleepy quality to him. “I could use a little more.” He thinks how strange it is we ignore smaller things inside us that give power to do tremendous things. Nelson’s hand curls around the railing, the tip of his finger brushes his open palm and his eyes appear fuzzy. He took his warm fingers in his own, his mouth moving over and without having been told, Alain undressed. Everything else was lost afterwards and, maybe, it was because it all didn't seem to matter. 

 

**___________________________**

**September 20th**

 

          “I deserve to win the world championship,” Nelson insists this at three in the morning. He’d  just woken up from the frightening dream (though he does not admit it) and woke Alain up with his whimpering. Now he is pacing naked back and forth  frantically from one corner to the other.

          Alain is still half asleep and the lamp on the bed side is blinding him. He groans, shuts his eyes and flops down on the pillow. “No one deserves to win the championship, you work for it,” he surges in a sharp voice.

          “That fucker Nigel doesn’t want it as much as I do,” Nelson clenches his jaw and plants his hands on his hips. “I am the one who had the crash and survived, I am still here and I am going to get that fucking championship.”

          “Okay, Nelson,” Alain presses his face back into the pillow. “Why exactly did you have to wake me up?”, he mumbles.

          This causes Nelson stop and flick off the light on the bed side table. “Nothing to do with you,” he admits, then he quietly adds, “Just go fucking back to sleep, Alain.”

          Alain does and Nelson continues marching the room as if his footsteps bring him closer and closer to a bit of clarity. Alain fears he wants it so badly that he’ll kill himself to get it.

 

**___________________________**

**September 27th**

 

          Slowly but surely, Nelson becomes a little less of himself every week.

 

**___________________________**

**October 17th**

 

          “Do you want to go out tonight?”, Alain changes lanes before breaking to halt at the brief stop sign.

          Nelson grunts, resting his forehead against the glass of the passenger side window with a shrugs . “No, not  really ,” he admits, thumbing at the frayed edges of his jean shorts.

          Alain sighs, “Well then, what do you want to do?”

          “Sleep,” he mumbles and for a moment, he shuts his eyes like even the thought exhausted him.

          “Still not sleeping?”, Alain questions, maintaining a corner of his eye on him.

          Nelson groans, “None of your business.”

          "It is my business,” he clenches his jaw, “You keep insisting you are fine and I don’t believe you. Then again, I don’t know whatever to believe with you.”

          Nelson sits up alert and shoots his attention towards him, “What are you trying to say?”, he frowns.

          Alain wrings his hands on the wheel, “That I can never trust you. You are always lying about yourself.”

          “No, I don’t.”

          “ Really ?”, Alain growls and something from these past months burns in his gut, “Then why don’t you ever answer your phone at the beginning of the week ? Why are you always in Milan?”

          Nelson remains uncharacteristically silent, moving his mouth open, closed and then giving up as if silently arguing with himself.  “Friends,” he lies.

          “Lies, you have no friends but me,” Alain hisses, “Why do you go to Milan every week?”

          Nelson shrugs once again and removes =his eyes back towards the window. “There is a doctor there I’ve been talking to."

          “So, you are not alright then,” Alain swallows roughly, his fingers tightening over the gear shift.

          “What the fuck do you want me to say, Alain?”, Nelson retorts, bringing his hand down from his mouth. “That I am broken? That my eyes are absolutely fucked and I can’t see anything anymore? That I get double vision and migraines because of the stupid accident?”, he brushes away from him towards the door, shoving his body against it. It is a little silent now. “You don’t get to always be a fucking savior, you aren’t righteous yourself,” there is poison in his words.

          It was when that blade twisted up in his gut, broke through the boundaries of skin and flesh. “You think I am trying to save you?”, Alain snorts with a reply, “That I  honestly care a thing about how you are feeling?” He shakes his head, “I am trying to be nice to you, and you don’t care a single bit. A single damn bit.”

          The prick of tension builds. Through the debris, there is one small flash of clear meaning, a soft toning: “What am I to you then?”

          “I could ask you the same thing of you. You won’t win the world championship, you’re a dying class, Nelson.” It was that silence, the loss of his usual fighting nature that kicks him the most. The gradual passion dripping away. “You have a death wish, if you can’t drive the car, how do you ever expect to win another championship?” Nelson blinks slowly into space for a moment, his hands are still, motionless and neither has a muscle moved. His jaw tightens and his eyes turn away towards the side glass so Alain can’t see his face. “Nelson?”

          “You can let me out of the car,” he whispers, reaching for the door handle.

          “What?”

          “Stop the car.”

          “Nelson, listen, I’m--”

          “Stop the fucking car, Alain,” Nelson snaps to him in a sudden movement and his eyes are small, fearful and shadowed.

          Alain  reluctantly drags the car over to the sidewalk. Nelson undoes his belt, pushing open the door and slamming it behind him with a bang without looking back. Alain wonders if he should roll down his window, follow him and beg him to get back into the car. The hotel is still another four miles away. Instead, he  calmly closes his eyes, rests his forehead on the steering wheel and respires.

          “Stupid, stupid, stupid…”

 

___________________________

 

          Alain doesn’t expect Ayrton to be sitting alone at a table in the hotel restaurant near the bar when he enters.  It takes him by surprise when Ayrton notices his presence and gestures for him to steal the vacant seat across from him . Alain almost declines because he only expected to be there for a few minutes. Then, he thinks:  _ what good would it do to refuse and be alone? _ He grabs the seat  quietly and not a word  is spoken for a few minutes.

          “Do you want something to drink?”  Ayrton canvasses, leaning back in his chair with one arm thrown  languidly over the back of the furniture .

          “Water is all for me,” and he sense his eyes on him, dripping, running over his face as if trying to read him. He drops his eyes to the table cloth, skimming his fingers over the material.

          “There is something about you tonight,” Ayrton admits, pursing his lips in concentration. 

          Alain takes a sip and indulges him, “What is it?”

          “In you face,” he responds pensively, “You appear almost…”

          “I am not sad,” he  instantly cuts him off with a shake of his head.

          “No,” Ayrton nods, arching farther over the table and Alain’s eyes fall to his hands: the rough coil of skin and muscle. “Not that, something else.”

          “Disappointed? Dejected?”, he chuckles with an amused tone.

          Ayrton snaps his fingers together with a delicate smile, “Yes, that is it. _Dejected_.”

          Alain moves his attention to their forearms, poking out after a cuff of pressed sleeve. “And why do you believe that?”, he circles the rim of his glass as it rests on the tabletop.

          “My hands,” Ayrton jabs out his chin. Immediately, Alain darts his attention away from them a little embarrassed, “You can’t stop looking at them.”

          Alain leans back in his chair, “Sorry.”

          He waves him away, “Don’t be. There is no reason to be. But you can’t reach my eyes, you aren’t looking at me.” He shrugs, “It is like you are afraid I might read you. Believe me, Alain, you are not as difficult as you think to understand.”

          Alain smirks, “Alright, then.”

          But the question on his tongue since he strides in through the door leaves him: “Why are you here?”

          It doesn't take him off guard. “I am hungry, this is a restaurant isn’t it?”, it is an easy question, but not a stupid one.

          The dim lighting shines against his cheeks; kindles every little freckle patterned on their features . “It is late,” he mentions and it is only  just past eleven in the evening.  “You are here late instead of sleeping meaning something is on your mind,” he isn’t done either, “Not a single driver would waste their time in the hotel restaurant when they could get so much better . You are searching to go somewhere to keep your mind off of what it is you are thinking about.”

          Alain stills, electricity almost appears to crackle in the air. His body stiffens and then  surprisingly loosens up. He feels especially freer than before like a weight has  been drawn from his shoulders.  “But then,” Alain finally meets his eyes, the twilight and most daring excitement there, “What are you doing here ?”

          Ayrton stalls, muses and rubs one hand over the length of his jaw. He grins, one of his usual velvety, small movements that doesn’t affect the sharp edge of his eyes. “Well, if nobody else I know is going to be here and I want quiet, why wouldn’t I go here? I have a higher probability of meeting someone I know if I go out then if I stay here.” Everything of his requires thought. Analysis over everything little thing that goes on.

          “You ran into me,” Alain points out.

          A little chuckle leaves Ayrton, faint and breathy, “I can trust you not to be like the others.”

          It is strange. It grows quieter in the room as they begin to close up and Ayrton pays the bill. But the tone doesn't feel like silence, only a type of rich peace. “That has another question, however, what is it on your mind?”, he inquires.

          Alain shrugs absently, “A friend.” he sweeps his fingers over the tabletop; then he wonders if Nelson got back okay (and the guilt creeps into his mind).

          “I hope it doesn’t bother you enough to ruin your performance.”

          “It won’t. Nothing ever does.”

          It is getting close to eleven thirty and they walk out together. He swears their hand guides the small of his back.

          “Goodnight, Alain,” Ayrton taps his hand onto his shoulder, the fingers  slowly and  surely falling away, trailing off as they separate into two different directions . The farther they leave, the more and more Alain still feels their touch on his skin.  He falls asleep as soon as he gets to his room,  perhaps because he had forgotten what had been plaguing his mind before .

 

**___________________________**

**November 6th**

 

          Alain arrives up at his door at day after Nelson won his third world championship. As soon as the Brazilian opens the door, he frowns and attempts to slam it in his face.  Alain  quickly slaps his hand against the wood, pushing against it and placing his foot between the space .

          “What the fuck do you want?”, Nelson growls, still trying to shove him away from the door. “Come to berate me?”, he mocks.

          “I came by to say sorry,” the tension quits as Nelson discontinues his struggle. Alain stiffs out a huffed breath, steps inside and the door closes behind him.

          “I didn’t ask you to apologize,” Nelson moves farther into the room, towards the desk on the opposite end.

          “I am not doing this for you,” he admits, “I am doing this for myself.”

          “Well,” he rolls his eyes as he plops into the chair with a groan, “That really doesn’t do anything, does it?”

          Alain shakes his head and folds his arms behind his back, “It doesn’t. Not at all. But it is better I said it than nothing at all.”

          Nelson respires, shifts his head away and curls his legs up underneath him. “I am too old for this,” he grumbles.

          “Maybe so,” Nelson sends him a scowl, “But if you won a third world championship, how bad can you be?”

          “Guess you’re right.”

          Alain settles on the edge of the bed, the side closest to him and leans towards him. “Congratulations,” Nelson meets his eyes, “On winning your third championship.”

          He hesitates, then nods genuinely, “Thank you.” But what Nelson discloses next surprises him, causes him sit up in relief. “I have... issues,” he quietly says.

          “Wow, I couldn't tell.” A slug arrives to punch him in the shoulder and he shoots up a hand to rub the area with a tight wince.

          “We all have issues, at least I am able to admit mine.”

          Alain rocks his head to the side, “Not all the time.”

          Nelson eventually gives up, “Fine, my problems since my crash are worse than I’ve let on.”

          “And?”

          “I probably need help.” Alain's hand on his knee and this time Nelson doesn’t flinch under his touch. His eyes are calm, watching him with a serenity as if waiting for him to hurt him in some way..

          “About time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr is @piquets, I'm not gonna beg for comments because I don't get em' anyways. Thanks for reading! I take requests now!

**Author's Note:**

> As usual: any questions then hit me up by @pieregasly on Tumblr. Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed :) I take requests!


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